


Two Turtle Doves

by WritingOutLoud



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Advent Calendar, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Established Relationship, Gifts, M/M, Parentlock, festive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 5,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: ‘On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, the severed tongue of a twenty-three year old man.’This year, John decides to make Sherlock's advent calendar a little different. A series of 221B ficlets about each day of advent.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 371
Kudos: 160
Collections: Festive Johnlock Collection





	1. 1st December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you so much to my wonderful beta and prompt supplier, ChaserJinx8065.
> 
> Special mentions to LaKoda0518 and CarmillaCarmine for being wonderful cheerleaders!

The navy box surprised Sherlock when he entered the kitchen that morning. It sat in the centre of the kitchen table, decorated with a singular brown label with the number one written in black ink. John was already up, busying himself at the stove as he cooked breakfast, chattering away to Rosie, sitting in her high chair. 

Sherlock lifted the box with one hand. It was small, fitting neatly in his palm and weighing approximately 5 grams. He was tempted to shake it, to deduce what was inside before ever opening the box, but he refrained, instead glancing up to look at John. 

John was eyeing him from the stove, a knowing smirk on his face. He looked away when Sherlock turned to him, tipping scrambled eggs out of the saucepan and onto a plate. 

“What’s this?” Sherlock asked, lowering himself to sit in the kitchen chair. 

“Your advent calendar.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, finally giving into temptation and lifting the lid off the box. Inside, wrapped in protective white tissue paper, lay a stack of microscope slides. 

He smiled at John, nodding his head in thanks, already planning how to use them. He’d run out weeks ago and hadn’t been bothered to replace them, but during this dry spell of cases, he would need something to stave off the boredom.


	2. 2nd December

On the second day, Sherlock had almost forgotten about his advent calendar. The second box, labelled number two, sat on the kitchen table, in exactly the same place as the first. Today, John was upstairs, dressing Rosie. Sherlock could hear his voice drifting down the stairs from her bedroom, a quiet song on his lips. 

Sherlock smiled. He’d had reservations about the child, back when she was still a clump of cells. He found adults difficult enough, let alone babies. Sure, sometimes he found it easier to talk to children - their soft naivety was more accepting of his sharp edges than any adult he knew. But to be around them for any length of time, to care for them, was an entirely different matter. He could barely remember to look after himself, let alone a tiny, fragile person. 

Yet Rosie had been an unexpected joy. He found himself softening towards her as he and John had rebuilt their life together, and she brought out a side of the doctor that Sherlock had never witnessed before. He’d always known that John was the more caring of them both, but to experience his pure devotion to the child melted Sherlock’s heart. 

He lifted the lid from the box. Inside, sat on a sheet of grease-proof paper, was a croissant from Sherlock’s favourite bakery.


	3. 3rd December

By December 3rd, Sherlock was expecting the gift. This time, however, instead of a sleek navy box, the present was wrapped tightly in lime green paper and an abundance of sellotape. 

“Rosie chose this one,” John explained through a yawn as he entered the kitchen, the toddler perched on his hip. 

“I see you wrapped it this time.” 

“Very funny.” John grinned, reaching up to kiss Sherlock’s lips. Rosie reached out for the parcel on the table, recognising the wrapping. Once she was safely in her high chair, Sherlock crouched down to her level and held the package out towards her.

“Want to help?”

Between them, it took five minutes to peel away each layer of sellotape and uncover the item inside. 

“Beeeee!” Rosie cried. 

Sherlock laughed, pulling the plush bee free and letting the child take it from his hands. 

“Indeed, Watson.  _ Bombus _ . Can you say Bombus?” 

Rosie replied with an indistinct garble. 

“Very good. We’ll try again tomorrow.” 

He ran a hand absent-mindedly through her messy curls, a small ember of warmth beginning to spread through his stomach. Rosie squeezed the small plushy in her hands before handing it back to Sherlock, her attention now captivated by the bowl of cereal that had been placed in front of her. Sherlock pocketed the animal and turned to his own breakfast.


	4. 4th December

It was afternoon before Sherlock received his advent on the fourth day. Not long after lunch — or at least, John’s lunch, Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten — John called him and Rosie into the kitchen. They abandoned the book they were reading and were greeted by John arranging lab equipment on the table. Sherlock raised his eyebrow as John placed a pair of safety glasses over Rosie’s eyes.

“Good habits.” 

“For shaving cream?” Sherlock mused, picking up the canister nearest to him.

“For when you inevitably get her working on experiments with you,” John smirked, passing Sherlock a beaker. “This one’s safe. And I washed all the equipment before, just in case.”

Over the years, Sherlock had become much better at labelling his experiments and washing up after himself, but John’s over-cautious habits had stuck. 

“What are we making?” Sherlock asked, taking the seat next to Rosie. 

“Snow.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrow again in scepticism. 

“With shaving cream, lavender oil and baking soda?” 

“Shut up, it works.”

Sure enough, ten minutes later, their beakers were full to the brim with artificial snow. John poured it into a tray, grinning stupidly at the way Rosie was running her hands through it in awe. 

“Wait till she sees -- ” John was interrupted by a well-aimed snowball to the face.

“Bastard!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have never made fake snow before. I might try it this season, just to see how it works! This recipe is real though. You essentially just mix shaving cream and baking soda together, with a few drops of essential oil to make it smell nice.


	5. 5th December

Sherlock took care to shut the bedroom door quietly behind him as he entered the kitchen. John had always been a light sleeper — a leftover habit from the army — and these days he slept even lighter; one ear always open for the toddler upstairs. 

The kitchen was still a mess from yesterday’s snowball fight. They’d spent all afternoon hurling misshapen snowballs at each other, missing more often than not. A snowman sat casually on the counter — a scrap of ribbon around its neck; two olives for eyes. 

A glance at the clock told him it was three am. Sherlock couldn’t sleep. It was becoming easier these days, a mixture of age and routine, but there were still nights when he couldn’t switch his brain off long enough to let darkness claim him. 

Sherlock turned to grab the kettle, only to find it smothered in shaving cream snow. A smile tugged at his lips, remembering Rosie’s joyful face as she flung handfuls of snow around the room. 

It wasn’t until John meandered out of bed, a yawn splitting his face, that Sherlock realised he’d cleaned the entire kitchen. 

“Good morning,” John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, wrapping an arm around his waist. He pushed an A5 notebook into Sherlock’s hand, ‘Sherlock’s experiments’ embossed onto the front in bold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this advent calendar was something my parents did for eachother a few years ago. I thought it was adorable, and definitely something John would do


	6. 6th December

It took him until two am, but Sherlock finally managed to fall asleep the next night. 

His dreams were scattered; odd fragments he couldn’t hold onto. Falling snow with John and Rosie — likely his brain cataloguing the events of the week, committing them to his long term memory. 

Unlike John, once Sherlock was asleep, he was dead to the world. If allowed, he could (and had, on many occasions) sleep through even Rosie’s morning cries. John often teased him for it, claiming that he was just trying to get out of changing the toddler’s nappy. 

He finally woke mid-morning, vaguely aware of John’s voice drifting through the bathroom door. It took him a moment to realise that John was singing, and even longer to realise that it was a Christmas song. 

“Last Christmas, I gave you my heart — “

Sherlock groaned into his pillow, knowing the song would likely be stuck in his head for the rest of the day. Christmas songs had the annoying habit of being persistent earworms. Finally, his brain fully engaged, and he sat up quickly; surprised by more data than he’d expected. He ripped open the covers, staring at his feet. His cotton clad feet. 

He hadn’t gone to sleep with socks on; nevertheless, there they were — black shin-high socks, embroidered with tiny bumblebees.


	7. 7th December

Wretched tree. Wretched Christmas. 

Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, sulking audibly. He was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. He could tell an airline pilot’s profession by their right thumb; he’d bested the world's only consulting criminal, and somehow, he had convinced John Watson to fall in love with him. He would not be beaten by a Christmas tree. 

His arms were red and angry with scratches from its infernal branches. The tree had barely fit in the stairwell, and Sherlock had struggled to carry it up; watched all the while by an amused John. 

“Need help?” 

“I’m fine.” He’d insisted, unwilling to admit that the tree might be too large for him alone. But John was holding a sleeping Rosie, and he’d be damned if he made him set her down. 

As soon as the pine had been placed in a bucket of water, he’d flung himself dramatically onto the sofa, settling in for a good sulk. 

A few hours later, he finally slid from the cushions, shot a glare at the infernal evergreen, and stalked towards the kitchen to find John. His eye caught, however, on a bauble, hung on one of the top branches. Invisible from the sofa, it hung on a crimson ribbon — a glass sphere, painted with the London skyline, and a familiar London bus.


	8. 8th December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ChaserJinx8065 for this prompt! (Second best thing I ever did was drag you into Doctor Who. The best thing was dragging you into Sherlock. You're welcome.)

“Doctor Who?” Sherlock curled his eyebrow at the DVD he’d just unwrapped. He didn’t much care for the show, but over the years John had kept up religiously with the series. 

“Not just any. Last year’s holiday special.” John’s sheepish grin melted across his face. “What if I told you Rosie picked it?”

“You’d be lying.” Sherlock couldn’t help but mirror John’s smile, despite knowing this gift was purely for John. He’d never enjoyed the show but had watched a couple of episodes with John, just to make him happy. Maybe more than a couple. More like a few seasons. But, Sherlock reminded himself, it was purely for John. 

“Okay, yeah. This one is for me. But you wouldn’t have bought it for me!” 

Sherlock pulled John towards him, a grin still smothering his face, and rested his chin on John’s head. 

They ended up sprawled on the sofa, the opening theme blaring from the television, Rosie curled up between them. 

Perhaps he enjoyed the show more than he thought. Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever choose to watch it, but there were worse ways to pass the afternoon. 

John’s eyes lit up as soon as the episode started, and Sherlock smothered a smile, his thoughts drifting upstairs, to where the latest season lay wrapped, ready for Christmas, under John’s old bed.


	9. 9th December

They’d been careful, since Rosie. They still ran through London’s streets, chasing clues across the city, but there was a reservation between them. Where before they would hurtle after a suspect with no thought but the case, they now hung back, allowing Scotland Yard to take the brunt of the chase. They’d never actively decided it, never had a conversation about the little girl in Baker Street, but between them they had a silent agreement that she was more important than any case. 

Still, accidents happened. 

Sherlock stumbled through the door, holding his scarf to his head. It would be ruined, blood seeping through the blue fabric, but John had insisted he keep the wound covered until they got home.

John pushed Sherlock into a chair before pulling the large first aid kit from under the sink. He unzipped it over the table, pulling out antiseptic wipes and an assortment of dressings. Gently, he pulled the scarf away from Sherlock’s head and inspected the wound. 

“I don’t think it will need stitches, thank God.” 

John cleaned and dressed the wound, placing a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s forehead when he’d finished, wrapping his arms around the detective’s shoulders. 

Later that evening, Sherlock unwrapped the travel first aid kit that had been left on his pillow. 

_ Be careful. Keep me in your Belstaff _


	10. 10th December

“I thought I told you to rest,” John said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I don’t need to rest; it’s a minor wound.” Sherlock challenged, resuming his pacing. This was the first injury he’d sustained in a while, and John was becoming increasingly fussy about it. At first, Sherlock had basked in it, enjoying the extra attention John was giving him. Now, however, he was restless, and the constant fussing was adding to his frustration. 

“What do I know, I’m just a doctor.” 

“A doctor treating someone they are emotionally close to, you’re hardly unbiased.” Sherlock paused mid-stride, distracted by the look John was giving him. His  _ please, for me? _ look. Sherlock sighed, crossing the room and taking the disgruntled doctor into his arms. “You’re just more — “ he paused, unsure whether to continue the thought. “Seriously, I’m fine.” 

Paternal. That was the word. It was true that John had always looked after Sherlock; making sure he ate; insisting he sleep, even on cases. Sherlock had always assumed this was his doctorly side emerging; combined with what he later understood to be love. But this was different. Ever since Rosie, John’s fussing had melded into something else. Which was fine, most of the time. 

In the end, however, Sherlock caved; staying in the flat, curled up with his new book.


	11. 11th December

Thankfully, Lestrade arrived the next morning with a case, distracting John from his worrying. It was a four at best, but Sherlock leapt at the chance, wanting to prove to John once and for all that he was fine. 

They returned in the evening, contentedly tired, the suspect safely in Lestrade’s custody. Sherlock picked a sleepy Rosie up from Mrs Hudson’s, carefully climbing the stairs to avoid waking her. When he entered the living room, his eyes were immediately drawn to the fireplace, where three new decorations had been hung. Sherlock checked his mind palace; no, they had not been there this morning. 

“John, what’s this?” Sherlock asked, expertly shrugging his coat off and holding the sleeping Rosie to his chest. “It looks like a big sock.” 

“It’s a stocking; I thought we could have one this year,” John replied. Sherlock unhooked the one with his name on from the mantle, inspecting the fabric. “Please tell me you know what a stocking is.”

“Of course I do, John. I’m not an imbecile.” It had been years since he’d had one — at least before university. He usually avoided Christmas celebrations like the plague, hating the insincerity of the season. However, something was different this year; a steady warmth of excitement was growing in his stomach. Perhaps this was a new beginning.


	12. 12th December

_On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, the severed tongue of a twenty-three year old man._

Sherlock yawned as he entered the kitchen, shuffling over to where John stood, waiting for the toaster. 

“Where is it?” Sherlock had murmured over John’s shoulder, his chin resting in the unruly nest of the doctor’s bed-head. 

“Good morning to you too,” John pushed his weight backwards, playfully nudging into the detective’s chest. Sherlock swayed slightly but effortlessly regained his footing, wrapping a long arm around John’s waist for balance.

“Good morning, I suppose,” Sherlock muttered and closed his eyes, losing himself in the scent of John’s shampoo. He was still trying to convince John to buy better hair care products, albeit unsuccessfully. 

“It’s in the fridge.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and he leapt across the kitchen, only stopping long enough to press a kiss to John’s cheek. 

The tongue sat in a blue cooler; a golden bow stuck to the lid. Molly’s pathology report was tucked in an envelope beneath the container, and Sherlock scanned through it, his eyes widening with excitement. 

“For your experiment. Remind me of the specifics?”

“I’m measuring the oral absorption of poisons through the tongue muscles.”

“Right, I knew it was something weird. Just, don’t accidentally poison yourself again, please?”

“I’ll do my best.”


	13. 13th December

Sherlock spent all day conducting his experiment; scribbling down data and mixing new solutions of poison. He’d been waiting to conduct this research for months, but couldn’t stay focussed.

The sparkling warmth in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t go away, and as much as Sherlock tried to understand why it was there, he couldn’t put his finger on what made this year different. He’d never enjoyed Christmas, why was he suddenly excited?

It wasn’t until he unwrapped his next gift, a mini Christmas pudding, that he realised what was different. 

He finally had a family. 

Sure, he had biological family, but he couldn’t remember the last time he wanted to spend time with them. And he’d known John for years, but never like this. Before now, he had to keep John at a distance, never allowing his true feelings to surface. But now they were free. They had given themselves so completely to eachother, free of the barriers that had plagued them so long. 

Then there’s Rosie. 

Sherlock never wanted to be a parent, but when the toddler had fallen into their lives unannounced, he found himself adapting surprisingly quickly. Now he can’t imagine how they’d lived without her. His views on babies hadn’t changed, he just had newfound respect for her, and the family he and John had become.


	14. 14th December

John had spent a delightful afternoon last October chatting to Mrs Holmes about the frivolous activities of Sherlock’s youth. It had given him an idea, which he put to good use come 14th December. 

Three pirate hats sat beneath the tree that morning, each embroidered with a skull and crossbones, with different coloured piping around the edge. Sherlock’s face melted at the sight of them, and he wasted no time selecting the red hat and placing it firmly over his curls. 

“Captain Yellowbeard,” he saluted, as John adorned the yellow hat and gave the miniature blue one to Rosie. She grinned at the gift, delighted that play time had come early.

“If I’m captain, then who are you?” 

“I’m also a captain, John.” 

“You can’t have two captains,” John chuckled, adjusting the hat so it wouldn’t slip down over his eyes.

“You can on this ship. Along with our first mate!” He scooped up a squealing Rosie, lifting her onto his shoulders and making a show of looking across the treacherous waters of the sitting room. 

“Arrr, where too, first-mate?”

At some point, John managed to find an old collapsible telescope among the drawers. So, for the rest of the day, Captain Redbeard and Yellowbeard sailed the oceans of 221b, finding treasure and fighting imaginary monsters, accompanied by their first-mate, Bluebeard.


	15. 15th December

“Hello, brother mine.” Mycroft waltzed into the kitchen that morning, barely stopping to knock on the door. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock accused, abandoning his toast on the table and standing, desperate to remove the height imbalance between them.

“I was instructed to bring you this.” Mycroft held out a rectangular box, wrapped in blue paper. Sherlock tentatively took it, immediately turning to where John was hovering in the bedroom doorway, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smirk. 

Sherlock carefully unwrapped the gift, shooting a look of half-hearted disgust when he revealed the box. 

“I just know how much you both love playing together. And since the other set mysteriously went missing,” John raised an eyebrow: “I thought I’d get you both a new one.” 

“Really, Dr Watson? I hardly think I needed to be called to gift my brother Operation.” 

“Well you see, Mycroft, it would hardly be fair for me to play with him, would it?” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but nevertheless hooked his umbrella over the back of the chair and sat down. 

“Really? We’re doing this?” Sherlock asked, but he flung himself into a chair all the same. 

John chuckled to himself later when, despite their protestations, both Holmes brothers sat at the table playing back to back games, the only sound between them the occasional buzzing. 


	16. 16th December

Halfway through the night, the heating died. Mrs Hudson bustled upstairs with blankets and hot water bottles, despite John’s reassurances that they were fine. Sherlock wrapped himself in as many blankets as he could find, including an old one of Rosie’s. It was far too small and only covered his shoulders, but he insisted it was necessary to keep him warm. 

They ended up dragging John’s old mattress out and curling by the fireplace, a sleeping Rosie nestled between them. Surprisingly, she was the least bothered by the cold. 

“I should have bought you a blanket today,” John said, pulling the detective closer towards him and rubbing his arms for warmth. “Anyway, here,” He reached into his dressing gown pocket, where he’d hidden Sherlock’s advent gift. It was his old iPod, with a pair of white headphones wrapped around the middle. “The present is on here. I made you a playlist.” 

Sherlock’s mouth curled into a smile as he pushed one earbud into his ear, and the other into John’s. He pressed play. 

_ ‘Oh how unreasonable, how unreasonably in love I am with everything you do.’  _

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured, reaching forward to kiss him. They lay and listened for the rest of the night, pressing repeat when the playlist ended; each song settling in the space between their heart beats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song John and Sherlock are listening to is called ['Fair' by The Amazing Devil](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2mBVP9Z_sac).
> 
> Thank you to CarmillaCarmine for introducing me to their album, it is now one of my favourites!!


	17. 17th December

Sherlock had taken to stealing the chocolates out of Rosie’s advent calendar. Over the past two weeks, John had caught him red-handed at least twice. In his defence, Rosie was far too disinterested; she usually forgot that the advent calendar existed until John brought it over. Still, that excuse didn’t seem to fly with John. 

“You have your own advent calendar, Sherlock!” He’d shouted one morning, chasing Sherlock around the kitchen with a tea towel. “One I put great thought into!!” His voice was serious, but he couldn’t seem to wipe the grin off his face. 

“I’m sorry, John, it’s just so delicious!” 

“You tell that to Rosie!”

“I will! Where is she?” 

“I swear to God, Sherlock!” The fake-fight ended with John wrestling Sherlock onto the sofa, both bursting with giggles. 

On the 17th, however, Sherlock’s normal routine (stealing Rosie’s advent chocolate when John was in the shower) was interrupted. There, on the mantlepiece, was a small, shallow plastic dish, filled with chocolate. Sherlock smirked, lifting the container and opening the lid. Inside there was a solid layer of chocolate, covered in streaks of white chocolate; an edible Petri dish. 

“I can’t eat this; it’s too pretty!” He shouted through the bathroom doorway, making John jump: “Besides, do you really want Rosie seeing me eat something that looks like bacteria?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chocolate Petri](https://quirkychocolate.com/products/chocolate-petri-dish) dishes are a thing, and they're beautiful.


	18. 18th December

A manila envelope sat under the tree. Sherlock wasted no time tearing the file open, immediately realising what would be inside. A cold case; a young woman found by the river, no foreign prints or DNA, no evidence at all except for a strange key attached to her keychain. It wasn’t one of hers, and the entire team had been baffled. 

Sherlock poured over the files all day, pinning evidence to the walls and frantically searching in the yards online database. Strictly, he shouldn’t have access to their electronic files, but Greg had become so frustrated with Sherlock turning up at the yard every five minutes that he’d granted him access. Ever since ‘The Fall’, as John had coined it, the yard had created a more formal relationship with the consulting detective. They still didn’t pay him, but he had a contract, outlining what he was and wasn’t allowed to do in the name of London Met. Outwardly, Sherlock appeared nonchalant, but he knew that John was relieved about it, and for that he was grateful. 

After six hours, he called Lestrade, proudly asking for more case files. 

“So, who was it?” John asked. 

“I don’t know yet. But there are at least four similar crimes from the area. I think we have a serial killer on our hands.” Sherlock beamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case here is based on ‘Eye contact’ by Fergus McNeil


	19. 19th December

For six long years, the skull on the mantelpiece had been left alone. Gone were the days when Sherlock used to carry it around to crime scenes; hidden in the depths of his belstaff pockets. He didn’t know why he used to take it with him, only that there was something comforting about running his fingers over the well worn zygomatic arch. It kept the loneliness at bay on those long cab-rides home. 

_ Loneliness _ . It was a word he had detested. People flung it around so casually, all branding him with the same mark. Mrs Hudson whenever she brought him tea; Lestrade when he left the crime scenes the way he came. Alone. He would insist that he was not lonely, that he enjoyed being solitary, until a weary army-doctor wandered into his lab. 

He  _ had _ been lonely; he sees that now. But back then he had sunk so far, he didn’t know what that word meant anymore. He couldn’t recognise the loss he felt whenever he returned to the flat by himself and placed Billy back on the mantlepiece. You can’t miss something you never had.

Yet these days, between John and the curious toddler, there was hardly a moment to himself. He wasn’t lonely now. And, thanks to the new skull sat proudly on the mantle; neither was Billy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should probably clarify that this is just a new skull, Sherlock is FINE!! Only fluff allowed here!


	20. 20th December

It took three days, but Sherlock finally solved the case. He’d taken over the bedroom wall with his evidence board; crime-scene photos sprawling from ceiling to skirting board. John had insisted, after one particularly gruesome case last March, that Sherlock was no longer allowed to put evidence in the living room, where Rosie could see it. Of course, that meant John hardly slept during cases, as Sherlock would pace the room in his frantic relentlessness. At least John could sleep on the sofa, or on the pull out bed in Rosie’s room, and not have to worry about his child seeing decapitated corpses. 

They arrested a James Walker on the morning of the 20th. As it turns out, he had been selecting victims during the train journey on his evening commute, and following them home. The strange key found on the first victim was a souvenir from the last; each body had an item on them from the last person he’d killed. John needed to remind Sherlock frequently that whilst he might find that idea ‘neat’, it was not appropriate to announce that to the yard. 

It was fitting then, that when they arrived home, a brand new pocket magnifying glass was waiting for him under the tree. 

John poured them a drink in celebration: 

“To putting serial killers behind bars.”


	21. 21st December

Sherlock slept through most of the next day. Cases exhausted him, no matter how much physical activity was involved. He didn’t emerge from the bedroom until late into the evening, by which time Rosie was already ready for bed. 

“Sheeelog!” She squealed from the sofa, holding her arms out as he scooped her into a hug. 

“Hello, Watson. Is it almost time for bed?”

Sherlock missed Rosie as soon as he’d settled her into bed. Part of him resented having slept all day, but he’d learnt the hard way that his body needed the rest. He could push it to the limit during the investigations, but sooner or later it needed to catch up. 

He walked down the stairs as gently as he could, avoiding the creaky steps. 

“Sheelog? Really?” Sherlock giggled as he entered the living room, collapsing onto the sofa. John handed him a blue box, and Sherlock immediately started to unwrap it. 

“Well, it’s a step up from Sheel. It’s hardly my fault your name is hard to say.” John ran a hand through his hair: “She could always call you something else.”

“Like what?”

“Dad.” 

Sherlock busied himself with opening the gift, trying to ignore the fluttering butterflies in his stomach. Inside the box was a scalpel handle, engraved with his name, and a brand new blade.


	22. 22nd December

Sherlock avoided John’s suggestions of names Rosie could call him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be her dad, it was that each time he heard the idea a fresh wave of imposter syndrome washed over him. John was her father. She was his flesh and blood; his child. Sherlock felt as if he was claiming something he didn’t own. 

John finally took the hint and dropped the subject completely. The flat fell into an uncomfortable quiet, broken only by the soft murmurings of Rosie in the living room. Today she was playing with the plushie organs Sherlock had bought her, the ones he thought John would hate, but had bought anyway. As it turned out, John had loved them. 

Sherlock pushed the uncertainty to the back of his mind and continued with his day; unwrapping the small vial of Holmium John had given him. He held it for a long time, a smile melting into his face, surprised once again by the depth of his love for this man—this family. Ten years ago, stuck in a very different type of vial, Sherlock would never have guessed this was where he was headed. Hell, even a few years ago, chasing Moriarty and falling from Barts, he couldn’t have known this was who he’d become. Hoped; yes. But he never believed.


	23. 23rd December

The uncomfortable silence lasted the rest of the day and into the night. Sherlock lay in bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to find a way to bridge the gap between them.

“John, are you upset?” Sherlock asked the darkness, not expecting an answer. 

“No, Sherlock,” John murmured into his pillow, his voice thick with sleep.

“But you’ve been quiet all day—“

“I wanted to give you time to process things. I didn’t want to push if you had reservations.” 

“I just—you’re her real dad, John. I’m just me.”

John turned to face Sherlock and placed a hand on his cheek, waiting until the detective finally turned to face him. 

“You’re already her father, Sherlock. God knows you’re more of a parent than Mary was. If you want Rosie to call you by your first name, that’s fine. But you never have to worry about not being enough. You’re perfect already.”

Sherlock pulled John towards him, gently kissing him, trying to convey his feelings through touch alone. Sherlock had never been good with his emotions, but John always seemed to understand what was going on in his head. 

They fell asleep intertwined, and Sherlock was woken the next morning with a gentle kiss on the lips, and tea, brewed inside a mug in the shape of a beaker.


	24. 24th December

Christmas Eve was spent frantically preparing food and cleaning the flat, ready for their guests that evening. At least, John was frantic; Sherlock didn’t really care. These people had been to Baker Street before; he didn’t see why they would mind if the flat wasn’t spotless. But he kept his mouth shut and did what John told him to. 

Mrs Hudson came up a few times, holding trays of nibbles and fretting over the state of the fridge. She needn’t have worried; Sherlock had been made to clear the kitchen of all experiments the day before. John had made a ‘no body parts over Christmas’ rule, despite Sherlock’s grumbling. 

It was seven pm before they had any time to themselves; stealing a spare half an hour before Molly and Lestrade arrived. Sherlock was grateful that his brother had declined the invitation. 

“Here, before I forget.” John pulled a long, thin box from the wardrobe and placed it in Sherlock’s hands. “Because the other one was ruined.” 

The blue scarf inside was almost identical to Sherlock’s old one, except for his initials, embroidered in white in the corner. Sherlock let John wrap the scarf around his neck and leaned forward to take the doctor’s mouth in his. They kissed, soft and slow before being rudely interrupted by the ring of the bell.


	25. 25th December

Christmas Day passed in a blur; each lazy hour blending into the next. Rosie opened her gifts with John’s help, truly spoiled with the number of presents under the tree. John didn’t believe in buying her too many pointless things, but enough of their friends had bought her presents that they spilt out across the floor. Even Mycroft had bought her something. 

Rosie was particularly enamoured with a pretend doctor’s kit from Molly. Sherlock had chuckled as she’d opened it, admiring the detail on the stethoscope. It wasn’t some cheap plastic set; Molly had bought an almost perfect miniature model. 

Sherlock and John exchanged gifts in the afternoon, once Rosie had settled down for a nap. Sherlock eagerly watched as John unwrapped his vintage anatomical drawings, melting at the look of joy on John’s face. When it was his turn, however, he was motionless, paralysed at what lay before him. 

Rosie’s adoption papers. 

“I told you the other night, Sherlock. You’re already her dad. You always will be, but how about we make it official?” 

At that moment, presented with proof that he was here to stay; Sherlock’s anxieties melted away. He thanked John with an embrace, almost creasing the documents between them, carefully hiding the tears of joy spilling from his eyes. It had taken years, but finally, he belonged.


End file.
